


Sweet Spots

by thebermuda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, New York City
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 15:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3942085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebermuda/pseuds/thebermuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severin Moran is discharged from the army and moves to New York City. Sebastian and Jim open the doors to their Park Ave apartment, where they also let Jim's actor brother stay as he takes on Broadway...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something at First Sight

He was bone-weary and foul-smelling when he got off the plane, vaguely jet lagged despite being scarcely in a different time zone. He was kept awake only by having just ejaculated into a toilet prior to landing, thanks to a flight attendant who’d been charitable enough to give a pick-me-up to the only soldier on board with all of his limbs intact. 

JFK was the same shit show as ever; the passengers of his plane, all military, had been ejected onto the tarmac to make their own way into the airport. Welcome to the USA. It drizzled dirtily; the ground smelled like gasoline, and Severin was in a cloud of his own body odor, stale and damp. He tried not to move his arms much. The inside of the airport was too cold, air too dry, walls and floors the same shade of beige. An automated voice was making an airport-wide announcement about unattended baggage. Severin had the queasy feeling of being on a precarious raft and not knowing when the white rapids would toss him over for drowning. 

He was aware of the uselessness of his luggage. It caused a flair of panic in his chest, as if New York were post-apocalyptic and Severin lacked a survival kit. The military should have sent him off with something more useful than a few paperbacks and a week’s worth of civilian T-shirts. 

He walked through the doors that led to the outside world. Security signs warned him that there would be no turning back. 

He knew to look for a tiny, pale man with dark hair. This man would not be Jim Moriarty but he would look exactly like Jim Moriarty. An identical twin himself, Severin was prepared to give the man – Richard – the benefit of the doubt. Still he proceeded with caution. 

A flicker of pastel blue; lovely. It caught his eye in the otherwise bleak environs and Severin focused on it. For a surreal moment, during which the surrounding airport turned to blur, he saw that the blue spelled out his name. Meshing shades of cobalt and indigo, swirling into an S, an E… 

It was a sign, painted for him, held by a tiny, pale man with dark hair, and Severin realized suddenly and completely that he hadn’t seen anything pretty in years. 

“Terrible weather, isn’t it?” said the man cheerily when Severin approached. 

“It is,” said Severin, and just like that: His guard was down, and speaking was easy. It was not love at first sight, but an amicable gratitude, a nice way of talking about the rain. 

“I brought a spare umbrella,” said the man. His voice was light and appealing. “We need to take a cab, sorry. I don’t know how to drive." He looked sheepish, and Severin was fascinated by the faint flush in the man's cheeks, his pinks as lovely as his painted blues. Then: "Richard,” he added, as if he pulled the name out of thin air. He blinked. He held out his hand as if that, too, had suddenly appeared. 

“Severin.” Their hands touched, and Richard’s face lit up. Severin wondered how long it’d taken him to paint the sign, and why he’d done it. 

“Welcome home,” he said, and Severin could tell these were the words that the rain-and-umbrella talk had been leading to. 

Severin hadn’t expected anyone to actually say those words. He’d said them several times to himself, in his head, on his trudge through the airport. Welcome home: You’re broke, starving, and everything smells like shit. New Yorkers are louder than you'd recalled. Welcome fucking home. 

But he’d never considered the words without irony or cruelty. He found that he immediately took to this alternative. 

He opened his mouth, but was stumped, because he could not offer Richard the same warmth with the same words. 

Richard gave him no time in which to fumble. He said, “I left the oven on at home. If we get back in the next hour, you’ll have a lovely lamb to dine on. But if we take too long…” 

“I’ll be staying in a apartment of ashes?” Severin suggested. 

Richard nodded. 

“Isn’t that a dangerous gamble?” asked Severin. 

Richard looked up at him earnestly, and Severin was moved by the eye contact. 

“If it’s ready just as we get home, then it’ll be perfect,” said Richard, with special emphasis on the last word. He handed Severin his spare umbrella and left his sign by a trashcan. Severin thought this rather a pity but didn’t want to take it himself. 

They braced for the wet spring chill, and Severin had a sense, already, that he was leaving behind his world of piss-tainted toilets and sweat-soaked armpits in exchange for a place where people thought to bring two umbrellas and time their rack of lamb just right. He let Richard walk ahead of him, and admired, very much, the scruffy, uneven ends of his hair, brushing his fair neck, and the way Richard was so happily unaware that he was violating military hair code. 


	2. The Eldorado View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one was in London before, but now they're in New York. Why...? For the sole reason that I live in New York and have spent five days in London, so for them to go anywhere interesting or see anything noteworthy, they need to make a trek across the pond.
> 
> Are they still English/Irish? I'm honestly not sure, so read it either way, but it's not so hard to imagine Jim buying an apartment on Park Ave. Just, you know, to have.

90th Street on the corner of Park Avenue. When his brother had given him the address, Severin had snorted, but he hadn’t considered the reality of it: The terrace had more square feet than any _apartment_ he could afford right now. The sun was sinking and he leaned over the terrace ledge, facing west: Central Park was laid out before him, and the light from the buildings behind it glittered in the blue, flat plane of the park reservoir. The twin-towered Eldorado looked like so many stacked Legos, rising out, then in, one of the stone wedding cakes of Manhattan. Its two symmetrical spires glowed. The sky was a deep hazy blue. 

Severin didn’t turn until he heard the sliding door open. 

“Let me – ” he said, and he hurried to relieve Richard of his two massive trays, too big for his body. There was a split second during which Severin had one tray and not the other, and Richard swayed to the left, imbalanced. Severin suppressed a smile. 

“Is your cook off on Sundays?” Severin asked, taking the trays to the wooden, restaurant-style booth that had been built upon the terrace. 

The first tray held a rack of lamb that Severin thought rather small for two people, but which smelled of tender meat, parsley and garlic. The second tray held an assortment of dishes: Red potatoes sprinkled green with rosemary; roasted carrots and onions; and one bowl that was full of stinking, golden cooked garlic and olive oil, circled by slices of warm bread. 

“I’m the cook,” said Richard happily. 

“I can see why,” Severin praised. He set down the trays and nudged his head toward the towers. “Some view.” 

“Six million dollars,” said Richard, and Severin could tell that number was one Richard had repeated to himself often. “Plus five thousand a month to keep the floor cool.” He got into his booth. 

Severin raised his eyebrows. “Where do you work?” 

“I’m an actor,” said Richard. “So I cook the meals and don’t bother with the bills much. I’m the lucky brother.” 

“We’re both lucky brothers,” Severin agreed. 

“One second,” said Richard, stopping his own hands before he picked up his fork. “I forgot the wine.” 

Severin watched as he hurried back in through the sliding door. He found enormous pleasure in watching Richard move: He had a cute, frightened-deer way of hopping here and there. His jog was more of a skip – it was all very endearing. 

When Richard returned, he poured them wine while Severin cut the meat. Juice deluged around his knife, making his mouth water. 

Severin said, “How big of a piece would you like?” 

“Oh,” said Richard, as if the question took him by surprise. “All yours. I’m a vegetarian.” 

  


“This is how the Romans ate,” said Severin. Somehow it was dark and they were lying on cushions on the terrace stone. “Lying down.” 

Richard giggled. Around the time their second bottle of wine dwindled, Richard started to find everything very funny. 

“We finished eating hours ago,” he said sleepily. In the dark Severin was able to turn his head and see Richard’s smile without Richard noticing. There were lights on the terrace, but neither of them considered turning them on; Severin’s stomach was so full that he had no desire to get up. 

“It’s more like we’re stargazing,” said Richard. 

“We can’t see any stars.” 

Richard burst out laughing again. Every time he laughed, Severin couldn’t help but grin. He was horribly aware of the garlic stuck in his teeth. 

“We have the city lights,” Richard said. “They’re like stars.” 

“And we can’t hear anything this high up,” said Severin, closing his eyes and placing his palms flat over his stomach. 

“We could be camping.” 

“Mm,” Severin agreed. 

“You’re falling asleep.” 

“Mm,” Severin agreed. 

For a while it was only the sound of their breathing. He could sense Richard looking at him, but perhaps that was only wishful thinking. His body was heavy and sated. 

There was a soft, tingling sensation on his cheek. Then the unmistakable clicking sound of pursed lips, which relaxed him and made his cock stir at the same time. Richard’s lips brushed along his cheek, peppering it with slow kisses. 

Richard’s mouth found his neck, and it’d been ages since anyone’d bothered with there. The tip of his tongue flirted with Severin’s skin, evoking a growl from deep in Severin’s throat. 

Richard placed a hand on Severin’s chest. 

Severin’s eyes shot open. 

“Not while you’re drunk,” he said, remembering himself. 

Richard’s hand fell away. 

“I wanted to when I saw you,” he all but sulked, as if he already knew, from the sternness of Severin’s voice, that the argument was a failed one. 

“Not now,” said Severin gently. “You’re on your fourth glass of wine.” 

“Can we cuddle?” Richard’s voice was so soft; it was the aural version of his kisses. 

“Not while you’re drunk,” said Severin. 

“Let’s sleep together,” said Richard. 

“Not while – ” 

“No! I mean, not touching. Just outside, like this. Let’s sleep on the terrace.” 

Although Severin would have agreed to stay in the warm, summer air, it didn’t much matter, as he could see that Richard was already drifting off. Severin turned on his side, as he always slept, facing away from Richard. 

And then, later in the night, Severin readjusted, so that they were on their separate cushions, inches apart, but facing one another. When he woke up, the air was cool and smelled like flora. The first thing he saw was Richard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also: If you have any opinion on them staying English/Irish or on this becoming an American AU, feel free to comment.


End file.
